Consumption
by AshryverEyes
Summary: The primal hunger came suddenly, as it often did when they were forced out of their comfort and needed a familiar ground. (Feysand One-Shot. NSFW.)


**A/N:** **This is just a little smut because I needed to get out my suppressed hormones somehow. Especially after finishing A Court of Mist and Fury—which was** ** _phenomenal_** **. Maas sure does knows how to make 'em and break 'em. I hope you disregard the complete lack of plot in this mess of 1k+ words. Maybe I'll write some one-shots for this series? I'm currently writing a few about Lucien and Elain (which I'll probably feature in my Lucien!Centric fanfic). Hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: NSFW + ACOMAF spoilers.**

xXx

The primal hunger came suddenly, as it often did when they were forced out of their comfort and needed a familiar ground.

This time, Rhysand had been strategizing with Lord Tarquin while Feyre had Cassian show her a few maneuvers she could later help teach the Illyrian women. A noose had been woven, a trap set in place. War was coming, and they were all running out of time. It had been less than two weeks since Feyre escaped the Spring Court with a viable alibi and enough lies to hold back Tamlin until Hybern launched his strike against Prythian. Tamlin believed she was visiting her family in the mortal realm with two of his most trusted sentries on guard. With Mor's help, and a pendant meant for courage from Amren, they had pulled it off.

For now, the sovereigns of the Night Court took what they could get. Whether it be eternity…or two hours.

She'd merely winnowed from one corridor to the next when strong arms dragged her into their chambers and the doors were all but bolted shut with ash wood.

Then the dance picked up.

When she parted her lips for him to taste her, it was as though he had deeply bit the inside of a pomegranate. A dark syrup spilled forth, a hazy cloud of star dust, a river of moon juice that pushed and pulled and drifted like the lingering limbs of two lovers. Entities not entirely of this world came into being for them, for the two creatures who painted dreams and swallowed wind straight off the mountain tops. His lips drew from the corner of her mouth to the slope of her nose to the crease near her eyelashes—finding solace in every freckle, every new patch of skin left unnamed, now given life by the graze of his tongue, the gnash of his teeth.

"Feyre," he breathed, gripping her to him.

She didn't moan, didn't even speak as her lavishly bruised eyes slowly opened to stare him down and never break contact. Not even when she sought his throat with her teeth and trailed a path of nips and yanks and savagely pleasureful bites against his pulsating flesh. Her nose followed the column of his throat up to his jaw, where she paused briefly before drawing in his scent as though sampling a wine. He went still, too coiled up to breathe but too exhilarated to dare stop this beautiful creature from performing her assessment. The lesser part of him roared. He was uprooting.

And Cauldron boil him, she fucking knew it, too.

" _Feyre_ ", he growled.

Outside, just from beyond the copse of billowing ivory curtains, burning pillars of incense, and the occasional flicker of candlelight….there resided three mountains peaks, each crested with a star. When Feyre rose from between his legs, blocking out the view of the middle mountain but not enough to hide the light spilling through her hair, her forehead pulling back from where it'd been previously nestled against his ribs, Rhys felt his beast come alight with hers.

Above her silhouette, the middle beacon appeared like a burning crown.

No longer caring if they woke the others, they lunged for each other, snarling and biting and laughing breathlessly at the craze of it all. And when at last Rhysand was sheathed deep within his mate, and Feyre was daring him to go further, he allowed his wings to fully lengthen behind him. He'd told her once before how sacred his wings are to him and his people, the extent an Illyrian would go to protect his pride and honor. And although he'd been expecting her to touch his delicate membranous skin, he was not expecting to glance down and behold his mate's own glorious wings on full display, sprawled playfully for him.

"Why don't you show me what I've been missing out," Feyre grinned, a glint in her eyes that could only be described as some form of battle lust. His warrior; her own savior. This women would see to his end, he could feel it in his bones.

Rhys dipped his head into the hollow of her throat, muffling the noises he couldn't contain. If it'd been any other person, he would've been embarrassed at his utter lack of restraint. But it wasn't anyone else: it was Feyre. His friend, his lover, his queen, his mate, his equal. And now she claimed him as hers for the night, hers for the nights to come. How he deserved her, he still didn't know. But she'd help him understand.

"I'd like to show you a great many things, darling, but I believe I am right in thinking you already know the effects of using one's wings as a means to a dangerous end."

Her delicate breasts danced as she softly chuckled, and he purred as he rested his cheek against one. Each thrust was a promise, each bite an oath, each kiss a vow. They climbed up their ecstasy side by side, drawing out the pleasure as though taking from that pomegranate each long sip of honeyed ichor. They were not merely fucking, or making love. They were devouring each other.

A crack echoed through the room as something fell to the ground in their haste. Feyre kept suckling at his jaw, enjoying the primal sounds her mate was emitting. His large hands covered her back almost entirely, sweeping out towards her wings and carefully stroking while urgently pulling her closer. Feyre tripped towards home, rushing to connect their lips once more. His citrus and sea essence crashed over her, mingling with her own potency. Seeing them joined, smelling him so near almost undid her. Rhys must have read her thoughts through her opened mind, for his grip on her body become quite feral. She hummed her appraisal.

Time passed. She was fairly certain Amren had warded off their corridor from the others, allowing her High Lord and High Lady the slight time they had together. She would convey her gratitude later.

Feyre's tattooed hand found its way into Rhysand's hair, lazily fisting handfuls of deepest purple and onyx while her other hand worked soothing patterns into his shoulder blades. Together, they rested inside, against, beneath, above, and between one another. There wasn't a particle of space that could separate them. With his legs tangled up with hers, and her arms cocooning him against her breasts, they fell asleep with nothing but the wind blowing off the snow capped mountains as their lullaby.

At last, when her mate had gone to rest, Feyre remained awake. Alert. She cradled him closer, his body overshadowing hers, but then again, she would always be his warrior and protector.


End file.
